The question is so random I just shrug. “When she was young.”
“Cancer.”
The flat tone is so odd I keep my eyes fixed to hers, trying to understand what’s so upsetting without asking since drawing information out of her always comes at a cost. “That’s what she told me.”
“Don’t you remember when Armand Hudson tried to start a civil war down in Christchurch? An atrocious, emotional decision that ended badly. His eventual murder was the reason Balabanov took over so much territory. Armand never understood how to run a second-in-command so once he’d gone, there was no one in his silo ready to take over. It left half the city ripe for picking over.”
I rub at my eyebrow, closing my eyes to aid my memory. “How long are we talking about? A decade ago?”
She nods, her gaze narrowing in on my face. “About that. It would’ve been a year or two after we moved to Auckland.”
“Then, no. Our second year up here, Oskar was still trying to work me into an early grave. I don’t remember anything from that time if it wasn’t a job.”
“You should check with your friend, Baxter. See what he recalls about the events that precipitated his takeover but I’m sure I’m right.”
Her opacity wears on my nerves. “Right about what?”
“Armand’s daughter was Livie Hudson. Crimson’s mother.” The satisfied curl to her lips tells me my mother has connected all the dots she wanted to.
Smug is an expression that suits her well, possibly why she wears it so often.
“Livie didn’t die of cancer, that’s just a cover story. She was shot in the head. That’s what sent Armand spinning headlong into a battle he could never win.” My mother’s eyes light with joy when she clarifies what she means. “Ciprian murdered her.”
CHAPTERTWENTY
CRIMSON
In the car, on the ride home from lunch, I check my phone and see my father still hasn’t replied to my repeated texts. My messages to Marigold have fared better, meaning I’m now up to date with all the latest gossip from school and the Quess household.
When I arrive home alone to find Agnes in the kitchen, putting together a three-tier wedding cake, I’m so happy that I give her an enormous hug.
“It’s meant to be a surprise,” she grumbles, shooting a foul expression my way.
I wonder if the women in Micah’s life have always been so ill-tempered. My skin feels flayed after the lunch with his mother and it didn’t even last an hour. Every version of the conversation I imagine they’re having about me right now doesn’t work out in my favour.
“Since it’s not, can I help?”
She’s rolling out an enormous sheet of fondant icing, the colour a snow-white shade I no longer deserve. The dress I chose for tomorrow is close to the same colour and it feels deliciously naughty to know that while I might have deserved to wear the same pale colour choice on the night of my eighteenth birthday, that ship has now sailed, that genie is out of the bottle, that Rubicon has been well and truly crossed.
Agnes doesn’t answer yes or no but she slides along the bench a little and I take that as an invitation. There’s another rolling pin but when I attempt to smooth out the edges of her piece of fondant, I receive a glance that could cause a bushfire’s worth of damage.
“The smaller cake also needs covering,” she says, nodding towards another packet of the icing, sitting on the counter. “And there’s plenty of bench space.”
“Can I use the colouring?” I ask, spying the small bottles lined up like office workers queueing for the sole vending machine. “A bright red cake would be fantastic.”
“It would look like someone bled all over it,” she counters, snorting at the image it conjures for her. “What about blue or green? Something placid.”
“Silver,” I decide, grabbing the nearest bottle and scrutinising the label. “It says it only takes fifteen drops, but that sounds like far too little, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” she says in her driest tone. “I’m sure they went to the trouble of underselling its usage guidelines on every single manufactured bottle just to ruin your fabulous day.”
I wash my hands in the sink and dry them on the nearest tea towel, earning a glare of condemnation and a forlorn shake of her greying head.
“Hey. My mother died before she got to teach me all the useful stuff,” I say as an instant line of defence. “You can just tell me when I’m doing things wrong rather than giving me your dirtiest looks.”
“Oh, honey,” she says, and I expect vapid words of sympathy to follow as they always do, but she continues, “They get far dirtier than that.”
I carefully add the exact amount specified, then set to work kneading the icing until the colour is evenly spread throughout its stodge. When I finish, Agnes shoots me a reluctant glance of respect.
